


the x-men taught them everything

by openended



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Porn Battle, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their ship wasn’t noticed when it first crashed, or for the past six days, during which it’s growing more and more covered with sand, so the fact that they’re both drunk and naked and not at all paying attention to the outside world <i>isn’t</i> going to end up with them drunk and naked and at gunpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the x-men taught them everything

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: wartime, blowjobs

Normally, they tell themselves, they wouldn’t do this. But there’s nothing _normal_ about the situation. For one, there’s a war on. For two, their runabout’s irreparably crashed in the desert mountains of some godawful Dominion-controlled planet. And for three, well, one and two really ought to be enough but for three, Miles is having a hell of a time reconfiguring the computer to match the Dominion’s encoding system so they can get a message out without being obvious about it.

Julian’s trying to make the best of the situation by mentally composing a sonnet about how beautiful the planet is (which it’s not, at least where they are, because it’s sandy and bright and the lizards don’t stay in one place long enough for him to figure out the pattern on their backs), and that really ought to tell him that he’s completely gone to the zoo after six days in the runabout listening to Miles curse and bang around in the back. Starfleet needs to include decks of cards – and perhaps large quantities of alcohol – in their standard survival packs because unless your runabout has been blown to bits and you need to hike for shelter, a lot of survival is dreadfully dull.

Something clangs violently against something else and then there’s a shower of sparks and a litany of Irish-accented cursing that makes Julian’s eyebrows creep higher and higher because while Miles has been known to let loose with a few _bloody_ s and _damn_ s every so often, _that_ level of swearing was certainly never expected. Miles ducks into the main compartment of the runabout, glaring like Molly colored on the walls again, with soot smudged underneath his left eye.

Julian doesn’t ask about the soot, certain that there’s a panel (or three) that are now fried beyond comprehension. “Dare I ask?”

Miles only narrows his eyes and runs a towel over his face to get most of the soot off. “What about you? Any luck?”

“I’m thinking of switching to limericks.”

The poetry wasn’t really what Miles was asking after.

They _have_ to find a way off this planet.

* * *

They don’t have a clue how it started. Well, that’s a downright lie, because it probably has something to do with Miles fixing the replicator that afternoon as a distraction from the signal problem and Julian replicating a bottle of scotch instead of dinner. Their ship wasn’t noticed when it first crashed, or for the past six days, during which it’s growing more and more covered with sand, so the fact that they’re both drunk and naked and not at all paying attention to the outside world _isn’t_ going to end up with them drunk and naked and at gunpoint.

How it happened, and who’s to blame for it, is an argument for the morning.

Because right now, Julian’s on his knees with his mouth around Miles’ cock and sucking like there’s no tomorrow. Miles groans and reaches up to steady himself on the overhang of the runabout and thinks that he really ought to tell Julian that this isn’t going to take long at all, but then Julian _swallows_ and swirls his tongue and any capability Miles had for coherent speech goes completely out the window and all he can do is hold on for the ride.

Julian has one hand around Miles’ thigh and the other attending to his own cock. He sucks in his cheeks, making a vacuum in his mouth and takes Miles as deep as he can. He hears an _oh, God_ above him and that’s the only warning he gets before his mouth is filled and he has to swallow rapidly to keep up. He runs his tongue over Miles’ cock even as it softens, taking his time before pulling away and looking up at his friend.

Miles has a theory, one that hasn’t been quite worked out completely yet, that this isn’t Julian’s first time around this particular block. In the morning he’ll forget all about that theory, but he’s making note of it now because it somehow seems relevant to… _something_ , he doesn’t know what yet. He sits down next to Julian and catches his breath, needing a moment to recover from the best blowjob he’s ever gotten in his life before he reaches out to Julian.

Julian’s eyes roll back in his head when Miles curls his hand around his cock. He starts slow and then speeds up, using Julian’s precome as lube. Julian’s already horny as hell from giving Miles head and the conversation that led up to that action and for a guy who seems like he hasn’t seen another guy naked since the Academy locker rooms, he sure knows how to use his hands and – _oh god_ – mouth. 

Julian gives even less warning than Miles and he unexpectedly bucks his hips when he comes, which leaves them with a bit of cleaning up to do, but that can wait until later.

Because right now, the floor of the runabout is the most comfortable place in the galaxy.

“Computer, lights,” Julian manages once it’s clear that they’re not actually moving to the perfectly viable beds that are in the back. The runabout darkens and they drift off to sleep.

* * *

Julian wakes up with a killer headache and an awareness that he is stark naked. The headache part takes precedent and he manages to program a hypospray without moving too much. He waits for the medicine to kick in before he attempts upward movement needing, at the very least, pants.

It’s only when he hears a triumphant “Got it!” from the rear of the runabout that he realizes that Miles has been awake for a lot longer than he has. He buttons his pants – the jacket smells too much like scotch to handle right now – and formulates a snappy remark along the lines of _you couldn’t even give me a blanket when you woke up_ , but it dies on his lips when Miles sticks his head in with a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon on his face.

“Figured it out,” he says. “Got a message off to the station. With any luck, we should have a rescue in a couple of days.”

And then it clicks. “There once were two men from Deep Space Nine. Who crashed on a planet and the Dominion said ‘no, mine.’ They got really drunk to banish a funk, and got out of there without dropping the Jem’hadar a line.”

“Don’t quit your day job.”


End file.
